


Make any Fewer when we're Grown

by hinderants (smoken)



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Au in which Philip doesn't Die, Canon Era, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, So Incredibly Cheesy, why am i even posting this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-11 04:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8953675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoken/pseuds/hinderants
Summary: Philip and Georges grow up together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning you now that this will likely be 100% historically inaccurate because, liberties. Tags and characters to be added as we go :).

#  **April 5th, 1806**

"Georges, wait up!" Philip's voice carries with the wind so he can just hear.  Georges quickly steps over a tree root and onto a stick, feels it crack under his boots.  Soft dirt is sticks to the cuffs of his pants where they sit, too high, just above his ankle.  If his pops knew he was out in the woods again he'd be permanently barred up inside the house.  Not to mention the look he'd recieve from Mrs. Hamilton after dragging her son back out with him.  She had a way of making you feel as if disappointed in yourself rather than angry at being sprung, it almost makes him turn back. Philip wouldn't tell.  

"Come on Phil!" he calls back, doesn't slow down.  They're nearly there and Georges can already feel the breeze in his hair.  The damp air and the chirping crickets act as a trigger for the release of the adrenaline pumping through him.  He uses it to duck the next branch and climb over rocks.  He uses it to fly miles ahead of Philip and then feel bad.  He stops and waits.

Philip is shorter, has stubby little legs.  At least in comparison to Georges'.  He thinks it's cute, like Mr. Langley's sausage puppy, but Philip hates when he says so.  When he gets closer he slows down and Georges can see how his ponytail is all lopsided.  He's got red over his cheeks and his chest rises quickly.  "Are you alright, mon cher?" Georges giggles.

"Yeah.  Why are we going so far?" Philip pants, inhales, pushes the air out, inhales.  After three breaths, "What if we get lost?"

"Not to worry. I know this forest like the palm of your hand." Georges steps in, watching the light shining from Philip's eyes.  Philip's head moves slightly, hangs back to see Georges above him.  Georges grabs for his wrist, puts it between them.  

"See," he rubs the pad of his thumb from the base of his palm to just beneath his index.  "This line here is where we're walking.  Straight through the middle and out the other side."

Philip hums, watches intently.  Georges runs a line straight through his palm, lets his nail drag gently.  "This one is the river." 

Philip nods, eyes flicker to the rocks.  The river's just behind them.  Georges wraps his fingers round Philip's pinky, brings it to his lips.  "This is your house," he does the same with his index, kisses his fingertip.  "This is my house."

Philip watches him.  His cheeks are redder than before.  Georges puts his finger over a freckle, just below where thumb meets palm, "This is us."  Then curls in his fingers, one by one, frees Philip's wrist.  

Philip looks at his palm for a bit.  Seems to map it all out, places little trees on his skin and builds houses on his finger tips.  Georges gets bored when Philip doesn't say anything.  "I'll race you over the rocks!" he calls out.  Philip hates him for it.  Sets off all the same.  He'll push him in if he gets there first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is currently a tiny story that I started because, why not. There will be more chapters but I doubt the completed fic will be very long. Comments and kudos are appreciated :)!


	2. Chapter 2

# November 26th, 1806 

Georges peers through the crack in the wood, sticks his nose against the hinge.  Mrs. Hamilton plants a hand between his shoulder blades.  His chest is cold even beneath his coat but her hand is burning against his back.  He's scared to push into the room.  Can only see Philip's outline under the blankets from where he stands.  

Mrs. Hamilton rubs her hand and it heats him everywhere but his chest.  He takes a breath, exhales shaky.  She tells him not to get himself sick but Georges doesn't care.  He pushes back the wood.  Philip has his eyes closed and there's curls over his forehead, one tickling his cheek.  His nose is red raw but his face is pale.  Georges thinks his heart breaks.  He did this.  

Philip rolls forward an inch from Georges' weight.  Georges uses it to plant a knee on his other side, swing over against the wall.  He lays with his forehead to Philip's neck and toes his ankles.  Mrs.  Hamilton tuts in the doorway, Georges pulls him closer.  The door thuds closed.  

He breaths in, smells pine in Philip's hair.  He whispers against his skin, _sorry, sorry, sorry_.  Repeats in French.  Philip's soft when he rubs at his arm, tiny hairs there standing up and it reminds him of how cold he'd been in the forest the day before.  Has every regret, apologises again.  

Philip shifts when he wakes, rolls to face Georges.  He smiles, small, and moves closer an inch.  Georges holds him against his chest and sobs, once, twice.  When he looks up again the room is watery and the curtains are drawn across a black window.  Philip's face is golden with candlelight and soft around the edges.

"I'm so sorry."  Georges whispers, five thousandth time.  Philip looks down a second and his eyelashes fan out.  

"Not your fault." he says and his voice is like gravel and Georges sobs again.  "Jus' the flu anyway."  Philip closes his eyes again and nuzzles into Georges, arms around his side.  

"Still feel bad," his voice brittle.  He thumbs at the corner of his eye and keeps a hand at Philip's back.  The blankets are warm around him and so is Philip and so is his chest.  

Philip lays against him until Georges' eyelids begin to feel as if lead.  Georges hears Mr. Hamilton outiside, always the loudest voice.  He puts his hand through Philip's curls and scritches at his scalp.  "Do you think your mumma will make me go home?"

"Won't let her." Georges nods and closes his eyes.

Eventually it's Philip's pop who opens the door.  Philip whines when he hears him step towards the bed.  "No, daddy," and he swings his leg over Georges to press their chests together, climb on top.  

Mr. Hamilton laughs low, the heels of his shoes tap against the wood.  "Come on, Phil, Georges has to go home." but Philip only tightens his arms around his middle, shakes his head.  The bed dips when his pop sits on the end of it.  He rubs Philip's back and tuts at them.  "Laf will kill me if he finds out we got you sick, Georges." 

"Sorry." he whispers back and it's the only thing he can say.  His cheeks go red and he does feel guilty.  He squeezes his arms around Philip, says, "It's okay, I'll come see you tomorrow."  Philip rubs his forehead into his chest, rolls off like molasses.  The blanket falls off of him and Georges' lips are chapped against his nose.  Mr. Hamilton watches them warily.

"See you later, Philip," and he slides off the bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to point out any errors!


End file.
